


manlet (no direct translation available)

by pennyproud



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin mentioned, Cute Draco, Draco is cute, M/M, Tall Harry, and FASHIONABLE, author has a loose understanding of how portkeys work, cissy being a comedian, detailed descriptions of draco oufits and hairstyles, draco is baby here so what....., harry is tall, long hair draco, potter family lore, this is so silly, to all my short kings i love u and im only 5'2" im sorry to make fun of u, why r we alive if not to write fic for our friends art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:53:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyproud/pseuds/pennyproud
Summary: Harry has a growth spurt and draws the short straw. Draco really needs to move out. Narcissa recently took up a career in comedy. Hermione and Ron are good friends, to varying degrees."There’s a beat before the door swings open, and, to Harry’s surprise, Malfoy stands in front of him, the end of his jumper a bit charred and his long, platinum hair suffering from a dangerous amount of flyaways around the crown. He appears to be bewildered on several fronts, and the look only worsens when he has to take a step back and look up to see Harry’s face."





	manlet (no direct translation available)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendlaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendlaa/gifts).
  * Inspired by [manlet draco](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/530852) by fae. 

> fae said "manlet draco" and i floored it. period! this fic is like very silly.....they r here to have fun and u should be too! please enjoy! <3

_“every mouth you’ve ever kissed_  
_was just practice [...]_  
_was it a long journey?_  
_did it take you long to find me?_  
_you’re here now,_  
_welcome home.”_  
_― Warsan Shire_

Drawing straws had become both an extremely popular and extremely hated practice within the Auror offices. As was the case with most games of chance, how any given person felt about it at any given time was completely dependent on whether they had more recently won or lost.

Standing at the gate of the Malfoy Estate, a giant iron arch overhead and a lush garden visible through the fence, Harry Potter does not find himself a fan of drawing fucking straws. It should be _ Ron _here, or Archambeau, or any one of the other gits who hadn’t chosen Harry’s Cursed Straw.

Instead, he’s the one popping through the wards and trudging up a long walkway; it’s early spring and the Manor’s garden is in full bloom, Harry’s vision attacked by brightly colored flowers and plants. He can’t stop sneezing as he walks, and he has the beginnings of a headache by the time he’s knocking on the oversized front door. He thinks, bitterly, that he could’ve used medical reasons—his very real pollen allergies and his too sensitive for allergen potions palette—as an excuse to be _ literally anywhere else _.

There’s a beat before the door swings open, and, to Harry’s surprise, Malfoy stands in front of him, the end of his jumper a bit charred and his long, platinum hair suffering from a dangerous amount of flyaways around the crown. He appears to be bewildered on several fronts, and the look only worsens when he has to take a step back and look up to see Harry’s face.

*

Despite the amount of food he had eaten during his time at Hogwarts (and Molly’s determination to feed him an entire army’s worth of rations), Harry had never quite recovered from the malnourishment he suffered as a child. When he went to dinner at the Burrow one night and realized even Ginny was starting to catch up to him height-wise, he completely resigned to being just above miniature for the rest of his life. Until he woke up one day with the distinct feeling of his clothes not fitting.

The sensation was familiar from his years in Dudley’s hand me downs but didn’t make a sickle of sense to Harry. After the War—on one of their outings where they decidedly did not talk about The War— Hermione and Ron had both insisted Harry get a whole new wardrobe and remove the stain of the Dursley’s for good. Drunk with victory (read: butterbeer) and not yet understanding the exact intricacies required to cast a laundry spell correctly, Harry had agreed. That had been only a year before he suddenly couldn’t fit any of his fairly new clothes.

He had shown up at Hermione and Ron’s one-bedroom flat in a panic, a jacket that was about to tear at the seams zipped over his torso. None of his shirts had fit over his shoulders. Ron, who was still somehow taller, had gawked and promptly dropped the cup he was holding. “Mate,” He had said, in the same manner one observed a particularly ugly Hippogriff. Hermione had pushed him aside and ushered Harry in, not without her own gazes of disbelief.

Seemingly overnight, Harry had sprouted to a staggering Six Foot Three, confirmed by a wave of Hermione’s wand. After Ron lent Harry a bigger shirt, Hermione retreated to her “study.” It was really more like a corner of their living room with privacy, silencing, and expansion charms Ron had painstakingly put in place as a gift when Hermione got her job.

Harry plopped down on the couch, across from where Ron was sitting in their threadbare armchair. They stared at each other for a long moment before bursting into a fit of giggles. “Our lives aren’t ever going to be regular, are they?” Ron muses, and Harry just gets up and sits in his friend’s lap in response, resting his head on top of Ron’s. “Oh, you _ massive _ baby,” Ron jokes, and Harry laughs harder.

*

When Hermione emerges from her makeshift study two hours later, she’s smiling in that crazed way she does when she’s figured out something peculiar. “You’re brilliant, babes,” Ron says before Hermione can even start, and Harry nods in agreement.

Hermione frowns. “You take away the drama of my eureka moments when you pre-praise me, you know.” She comments, crossing her arms. The amusement in her eyes betrays her annoyed tone.

Ron beams in response. “Just making it up for not saying it enough when we were younger, cocoa bean.” Harry and Hermione both grimace and think about how they should have neutralized the threat of Arthur gifting Ron _ 101 Terms of Endearment for Your Partner of Color _ for Christmas last year much sooner. Ron laughs and Harry decides to speak up before Hermione launches into a rant about that absolutely cursed book.

“As much fun as you re-explaining micro-aggressions to Ronald would be, ‘Mione, I’d really like to know why the fuck I’m five inches taller than I was when I went to sleep.” Harry stares up at her from the floor, willing his eyes a little bigger so he looks pitiful.

Hermione sighs and murmurs a _ what am I going to do with you two _ under her breath before sitting on the couch across from Harry and Ron. “You know the phrase late bloomer?” She starts. Harry nods and Ron shakes his head. They both ignore him. “Well, you come from a family of late bloomers. Apparently about 4 thousand years ago, someone put a curse on your great great great great —“

Ron groans and Harry grunts in agreement. Hermione waves them both off and moves on. “Your very, very great Aunt Esha refused to use her legendary height to retrieve either a snake or a small child from a tree. The stories were translated pretty poorly from Tamil, and the original text was lost, so, I’m not certain which it was.”

“Famous Potter hospitality, innit,” Ron comments, and Harry pinches his thigh from the floor. Ron yelps and rubs the sore spot, mumbling under his breath about how much people changed after they grew a few inches.

“Anyways, the owner of the snake—“

“Or child,” Harry says, and Ron snorts.

“Or child,” Hermione agrees, “cursed the Potter family to be short. Except, they weren’t exactly the most gifted witch or wizard, and Potter familial magic was already very powerful by then, so it just kind of...delayed their height.” She gestures to the way Harry can now fit snugly into Ron’s shirt. Although Ron was taller, Harry had begun amassing muscle during his workouts with the Aurors. “Thus, Potters are late bloomers, so to speak. The curse can skip generations, and can’t take to those without magic, but in general, it wears off sometime after an eighteenth birthday and sometime before a thirtieth birthday.”

“God, a generational curse over a cat—“ Ron says, bemused. 

“Or a child,” Harry and Hermione chime in together.

“Or a child,” Ron amends, barely pausing, “from someone who could have just said _ Accio cat and/or small child _.” They all sit in silence for a moment before Ron starts giggling again. Hermione is smiling a bit, too, in that means something ridiculous that could only be happening to Harry has happened again. 

“It probably didn’t matter that it might’ve worn off after an 18th birthday because most people were expected to be married by then. So, y’know, hard to get good prospects when you’re a manlet.” Hermione assesses, taking a sip out of a glass of red wine Harry hadn’t seen her pour. He snorts.

“You considered me a manlet before, then?” Harry asked, and Ron laughed as Hermione choked on her wine, mumbling something under her breath about _ never helping you ungrateful giants again. _

*

Years later, Harry stands confidently in his height, giving Malfoy a curt nod and blinking a few times at his general state of distress. He’s also still grappling with the fact that a house elf hadn’t been the one to open the door.

After several moments of just them staring at each other, Harry clears his throat and begins, “Hello, I’ve been sent here to investigate a surge of magic in and/or around the estate.” Harry shows his badge, which feels strange.

Malfoy curls his lip up in distaste, either at Harry or the Aurors as an institution. Maybe it was just Malfoy’s natural state. Either way, the blond steps to the side, still holding onto the door as Harry steps into the large foyer.

A house elf appears in front of them with a crack, and Malfoy instructs her to fetch some tea and bring it to the northeastern tea room. That there are cardinal directions in a _ house _ makes the reality of where Harry is sink in even further. He’s startlingly glad that Hermione had made him go see a mind healer regularly after the end of the war, or he may have lost what few marbles remained as he followed Malfoy to the tea room.

As they walk, Harry observes several disturbing occurrences: random puddles of water gathering on the hardwood floor, house elves bustling to and fro, and, most worryingly, small singe marks along the walls. He’s so focused on praying there’s nothing afoot at Malfoy Manor that will keep him here any longer than strictly necessary that he almost misses the way Malfoy runs a hand over the top of his head, attempting to smooth down the unruly hairs present there. Harry feels the corners of his mouth turn up a little.

Harry wipes the expression off his face as Malfoy opens the door to the tea room. It’s oversized, as everything in Manors tends to be, with intricate crown molding and a soft yellow paint job. The dark stained coffee table is laden with obviously untouched photography books and French literature, two blue armchairs on one side and a blue coach swimming with labyrinthine embroidery on the other side. The tea has already been set out by the elf Malfoy had spoken to earlier, and Harry sits down in one of the armchairs when Malfoy motions for him to. The other man takes a seat on the couch across from him, quickly busying himself with preparing his own tea. Harry has to tamp down on another smile as he watches Malfoy drop four sugars into his cup _ and _take a heaping bite of one of the biscuits the elf had also laid out.

“Help yourself,” Malfoy says a moment later, almost an afterthought, still gripping onto the uneaten half of his biscuit tightly. Harry does, if only so he doesn’t have to just sit awkwardly as Malfoy overdoses on glucose.

This is the first time they’ve seen each other since the trials, where they had parted much more amicably than Harry thought would ever be possible. He supposed they both just didn’t have enough hatred left in their bodies to spare any on one another. War was funny, like that.

Harry finds himself inspecting Malfoy over the rim of his teacup as discreetly as he can. Despite the state of his hair and clothes, Malfoy seemed rather calm, on a level Harry had never seen from him before. He sat with his ankles crossed, his trousers neatly cuffed in what Harry can only assume is a fashion statement. Harry realizes with a start that Malfoy doesn’t have on shoes, his socks stopping just under the cuff in his pants and exposing a sliver of his bony ankles. It feels strange to find Malfoy in such a casual moment. He looks much younger than Harry remembers him ever looking, even when they were actually children.

Malfoy’s hair is much longer now, falling over his shoulder and a bit past his chest. He looks like he’s put on a healthy amount of weight, his face settled into the storied beauty of the Black lineage. With a strange pang, Harry thinks of the picture of twenty-year-old Sirius that’s hanging up in Grimmauld.

“Are you going to explain the source of the magical surge, then?” Harry asks, somewhat less official-sounding than he had the first time.

Malfoy sneers down at the tea in his cup, but it looks more bitter than truly upset. “Ministry making sure we aren’t staging a coup so soon before you become Head Auror?” He asks, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. Harry tries not to let his surprise show. The writing was on the wall for it to happen, sure, with Robards set to announce his retirement, but Harry hadn’t expected Malfoy to keep up with what was happening in such trivial parts of wizarding society. 

Harry wills his face not convey any emotion. “Thank you for keeping up with my political career, Malfoy,” Malfoy flushes, much to Harry’s surprise, “but this really is just a routine check. We’d make it for anyone with as many spells going off in such a short amount of time.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “How did the future leader of our brave Aurors end up making such a routine call?” Harry feels his face heat and knows he’s going a splotchy red under his brown skin.

“We, erm—“ He clears his throat. “We drew straws.” Grey eyes widen, and pink lips turn up into a smirk; Malfoy resembles a predator who’s cornered his prey when the doors of the tea room burst open.

Narcissa Malfoy is much more put together than her son, in knee-high boots and a light pair of trousers. Her blouse billows over her form as she moves to the couch, not a hair out of place on her head. Malfoy is looking at her quite contemptuously, Harry notes.

She sits down gracefully next to her son, the remnants of both the hard-faced woman she was during the war and the hollow shell of one she had been after the war gone. She seems more confident than ever, and Harry thinks again of Sirius saying, “You can’t ever properly knock a Black down a peg,” with an eye roll. Narcissa snaps and a house elf appears. She motions for a glass for her own tea before taking in the state of her son and motioning to him, too. The elf seems to understand and Disapparates right away.

“My apologies for my tardiness, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa says, thanking the house elf after he sets her cup down on the coffee table and places a tub of Sleekeazy's and an intricate half circle of metal in between the mother and son. Malfoy stares at those contemptuously, too. “I had to rectify my appearance before I could be in front of guests.”

Malfoy says, “Yes, Mother, I’m so glad,” with the tone of someone who is not actually that glad. Narcissa stares at him with the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. She sighs at her son’s appearance and opens the jar of Sleekeazy’s herself, taking a scoop of it and rubbing it between her hands. She reaches up and begins methodically smoothing Draco’s hair back and away from his forehead. Despite Hermione’s voice in his head telling him baldness is determined by your mother’s genes, Harry is surprised to find Draco has a full hairline, no sign of hair loss or his father’s villainous widow's peak. Next, Narcissa places the half circle of metal into her son’s hand, finally turning to face Harry.

She’s surprised but hides it well, taking Harry’s unfamiliar height in stride. “Well, you’ve grown,” She says, with the tone of someone who is in on a joke Harry isn’t. He’s starting to lose patience and watches as Malfoy, his entire face bright red, pushes the headband his mother gave him onto his head. Narcissa turns to her son and says, “_ Bébé homme? _” Malfoy sputters and sinks into the couch a little, suddenly looking like the petulant child Harry has always known him to be.

“Potter is here on official Ministry business,” Malfoy finally says. Harry feels like he’s not really a part of this conversation, for some reason. “It’s so important they drew straws to see who would come.”

Narcissa turns back to Harry and raises an eyebrow. “How...impartial.” Harry nods, if only so he won’t start blushing again. “What can we do for London’s finest?”

“There’s been a surge of magic on the property, at least 30-something major spells cast over the past few days. We were just looking for some sort of explanation as to why that would be.” Harry breathes out, happy to be (hopefully) nearing the end of this bizarre assignment.

“Oh,” Narcissa says, and Malfoy snorts next to her. She pinches him. “You know my sister, correct? Andromeda Tonks?” Narcissa begins. Harry nods. “Well, me and her are trying to...repair our relationship, I suppose.” Malfoy is smiling a little into the rim of his teacup as he lifts it to his lips. “Through cooking, the Muggle way. It’s an idea she got into her head reading some of their cookbooks.”

Everything makes sense, suddenly. The singed wallpaper, the puddles of water, the busy house elves. The Manor has several kitchens, Harry remembers, and there’s no way Narcissa isn’t taking advantage of each one in her attempts to outdo her sister at cooking _ the Muggle way _. Malfoy’s lack of shoes also makes sense, as do the burnt threads at the bottom of his jumper. He’s running a one man fire department to stop his mother from burning their family home down.

Despite himself, Harry starts to laugh, and then he can’t really stop. By the time he’s done, wiping a stray tear out of his eye and ignoring Malfoy’s irritated expression, Narcissa is staring at him with a gleam in her eye. “It’s fine. Andromeda almost took her flat down trying to make a pizza last night. Ted was always more of the cook, it seems.” Harry goes into a fit of laughs again.

“I liked you better when you thought humor beneath you, Mother.” Malfoy huffs.

“Oh, but I’m so hilarious, little Dragon,” Narcissa replies, motioning to where Harry is doubled over. “Why? You don’t think me and _ bébé homme _ are funny anymore, dear?” She asks, cocking her head a little and blinking owlishly. Malfoy looks like he’s barely suppressing the urge to strangle her.

Harry watches them and thinks about how strange it must be to be your own person at the same time you’re someone’s child. At the Burrow, even little Ginny seems to regard her parents less and less as an absolute moral guide. Her and Molly ask _ each other _for advice, the same way Draco and his mother tease each other like school children. It’s a peculiar thing, Harry thinks, to grow older and become your parent’s friend.

“Well,” Harry says, and they both snap their heads towards him like they had forgotten he was there at all. “That’s all I needed to hear.” He pauses. “Cooking is a lot like potions, Mrs. Malfoy. Your son was always decent at that in school—“ Malfoy chortles at the word decent. “So I’m sure if you two worked together you’d have it sorted in no time.”

Narcissa nods, obviously amused, and Harry stands, reaching over to shake both of their hands. For some reason, Malfoy’s skin is softer than he thought it would be, and he has to force himself to shove his hand back into the pocket of his robes. “Tilly,” Malfoy says, and the house elf who was in the foyer reappears. “If you could show Potter the way out.”

“Excellent tea, Tilly,” Harry says conversationally as he turns his back on the Malfoys. He can hear Malfoy and his mother whispering _ bébé homme _in varying levels of distress for a brief few seconds before the tea room door closes behind him.

All in all, Harry thinks there are worse things he could have drawn the short straw for.

*

At work the next day, Harry doesn’t tell anyone about Malfoy’s one man fire department, no matter how many people come up and ask what the Malfoys had gotten into _ this time. _In the lift a little after the end of the day, Harry finds himself standing next to Archambeau. “Fucking hate floo traffic after 5,” She murmurs in response to the question in Harry’s eyes. He nods in agreement before deciding to find an answer to the question that’s really been bugging him all day.

“You speak French, right?” He asks. Archambeau stares at him blankly before motioning to the name tag she still had on, like her last name should be answer enough. Harry laughs awkwardly. “Right. Well, do you know what _ bébé homme _ would mean?”

Archambeau snorts. “Someone call you that, boss? Want me to beat them up for you?” Harry swallows his comment on how he’s not technically her boss, yet, and she continues. “Direct translation would be _ baby man _ . Like a manlet.” She offers. “A _ short king _, if you will.”

In his sudden rage, Harry forgets to laugh at her (admittedly funny) translations.

*

The second time he knocks on the door of Malfoy Manor in as many days, it’s not as diplomatic as it was the first time.

Malfoy comes to the door again, frowning up at Harry. “Haven’t we done this already?” He deadpans, and Harry just finds himself getting angrier. He forces his way into the foyer, ignoring Malfoy’s indignant _ hey! _

“Where exactly do you get off?” Harry fumes. Malfoy stops in his tracks like he was expecting Harry to say literally anything else.

“In the privacy of my bedroom, usually.“ Harry waves him off, too upset to even bother unpacking that statement.

“You called me a _ baby man _ and laughed about it. In my face.” Harry states, looking at Malfoy the same way he does Teddy when he’s being a brat. Just like Teddy, Malfoy is unfazed. _ The gits really are related, _ Harry thinks in passing.

“Oh, Merlin, Potter—“ Malfoy breathes out all at once, just as Narcissa comes bounding down the steps that lead to the foyer. She nods amicably at Harry.

“_ Bébé homme,” _ She says, and Harry is mad all over again. Malfoy is telling her to _ just go upstairs, please, comedienne, your presence isn’t needed here. _

“I know what that means, so your rude nickname game can stop,” Harry replies. Narcissa raises an eyebrow.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Potter.” She says. “The joke is not on you, but my son.” Harry furrows his eyebrows together. “When you two were embroiled in your rivalry, my darling son was very proud of being taller to you. He often took to calling you _ un bébé homme _to his friends and I.” She motions to the two of them, Harry effectively towering over Malfoy. “You see the irony in it now, I assume?”

When Harry turns to where Malfoy is standing in front of him, the blonde’s face is gone bright red. He’s looking at his mother like he might really kill her. As an afterthought, Harry notes that he has on hair accessories again, a silk green scarf folded into a headband and tied to keep his hair back. The end of the scarf tumbles over Malfoy’s shoulders. “My mother inhaled quite a few fumes during her cooking escapades,” Malfoy finally says, going for unaffected and missing by a mile, “you’ll have to forgive her.”

For the second time in as many days, Harry finds himself doubled over in laughter in front of two Malfoys. When he’s calmed down (and fake, almost calmed down twice), he finds himself smiling. “For someone who just recently discovered the concept of humor,” He says, inclining his head towards Narcissa, “you really are quite funny.”

Narcissa smiles, just barely, and Malfoy huffs. Harry, acutely aware of how strange it is for him to be here now that he’s no longer angry, takes a step back. Narcissa waves goodbye and turns to Malfoy before heading back upstairs. “Surely you can walk our esteemed guest down to the gate?” She asks, in a way that means she’s not really asking. Malfoy mumbles a _ yes, ma’am _, and maybe something decidedly less respectful under his breath. 

He motions towards the still-open door and steps out after Harry does, closing it behind him.

For the first long seconds of their journey, the only sound is their shoes against the serene concrete of the walkway. Harry looks at Malfoy’s shoes and is surprised to find a pair of Muggle trainers, the same expensive ones Teddy had been begging for, in a forest green. His attention is snapped back to his companion’s face when Malfoy clears his throat. “How’s, erm, Longbottom?” Harry must let how random he thinks the question is show on his face, because Malfoy gestures around himself at the garden surrounding the pathway. In his mind, plants must automatically equal Neville. Harry finds himself smiling again.

“He’s fine. Working at a greenhouse until Professor Sprout retires at the end of this year.” Malfoy hums and nods and they lapse into silence again.

“I always thought you would’ve become the teacher.” Harry quirks an eyebrow. Malfoy wraps a few fingers around the ends of his scarf and fiddles with it. “You know, because you were so..._ decent _at defense,” Harry swears Malfoy is almost telling a joke, so he smiles again. Malfoy’s fingers stutter in his movement on the end of the scarf and he looks away just as they reach the gate. “Well, Potter. This is your stop.”

“Same time tomorrow, Malfoy?” Harry jokes and Malfoy waves him off.

“I’ll let you call me Draco if you promise never to return,” Malfoy replies, leaning against the gate he’s opened for Harry. Harry mimes crossing his heart.

“Cheers, then, Draco,” The auror says, only allowing himself a second to bask in the way Draco’s cheeks tinge pink before walking towards the Apparition point further down the road.

*

“Hermione,” Harry calls into her office. He walks in and sits on the couch she had put along a wall just for him and Ron. She looks up from her mountains of paperwork almost gratefully.

“Harold,” She replies, a few strands of hair dislodging themselves from her haphazard bun. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“D’you think you could petition have manlet officially classified as a slur, too?” It had been one of Hermione’s earliest and most successful campaigns, to introduce some form of censorship laws to wireless programs and other forms of media by classifying certain words as inappropriate for the general public. A happy side effect was some of the more unsavory characters in wizarding London suddenly having no platform.

Hermione raises an eyebrow and snorts. “Does it have a history of creating political unrest and causing psychological damage to those it’s used to degrade?”

Harry nods. “It hurts my feelings, too.” Hermione throws a pen at his head and he ducks it with a laugh.

“Has Ron called you short again? I’ll talk to him, he knows you’re sensitive.” Hermione gets up from her chair and comes to sit next to where Harry is sprawled out on the couch, his own Auror robes left behind in his office. Automatically, Harry scoots up so his head is in her lap, and she begins running her fingers through his unruly curls. “How were the Malfoys, then? Ron told me you drew the short straw.” Harry groans.

“They’re the ones who were calling me a manlet,” Harry says, then goes on to explain the entire situation to Hermione. Her whole body shakes with laughter by the time he’s finished. “Hey! Draco was calling me short stack behind my back for _ years _! Defend my honor!” 

Hermione giggles some more and says, “You don’t have much to defend, Harry.” She goes into another fit of laughter at Harry’s gobsmacked expressions. Just as Harry is about to tell her he’s going to Wizarding Resources and filing a bullying report on her, and Ron, and their unborn children, she snaps her fingers and gets up abruptly from the couch. Harry sits up and rubs where the back of his head had hit the not so soft cushioning. When he looks up again, Hermione is shoving papers in his face. “Since you’re so close with them, could you take their House Elf survey to them?” Harry flops back down on the couch and Hermione hits him over the head with the papers, repeatedly. “You get up right now or so help me—“

Harry snatches the papers out of her hand. “Fine, fine, Merlin. So much for not intermixing departmental duties.” He grouses, ignoring her bright smile.

Despite his protests, the thought of getting to see Draco again gets him through the day. 

*

For the third time in as many days, Draco opens the door for Harry. This time, Harry had the decency to tell the receptionist to Firecall ahead of time. As a result, Draco looks much more put together than he has the past two times Harry has been over. His platinum hair is put into a careful bun, a different scarf from the one he had worn yesterday tied around it; this one is a springesque yellow, and Harry thinks belatedly that’s he’s never seen Malfoy in such a bright color. His light blue trousers come up to a little bit below where his navel must be, the gingham pattern on them contouring to the shape of his hips and long legs. His white shirt is tucked into them, and he has on the same trainers as yesterday, except in white. Harry doesn’t remember Malfoy’s vanity ever manifesting itself into something good until now.

Draco smiles sardonically and opens the door without a word, closing it behind Harry when he steps into the now too familiar foyer. He holds his hand out and Harry places the folder Hermione had given him to hold the House Elf survey into his hand. “Is Narcissa home?” Harry asks, because he wants to tell her that other people also thought she was quite funny. Draco makes a face and opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, several tendrils of magic rise from the papers he had opened, shooting down the hallway to where the House Elves must be.

Draco makes an appreciative sound. “Smart. People can’t fudge a checkup spell, can they?” He seems to be talking more to himself than Harry, mind whirring. “No doubt several old families will be upset they can no longer just abuse their elves as they see fit.” Draco finally turns to Harry again, tearing his eyes away from where he had been staring after the wisps of magic. “Hard evidence on mistreatment is a much better stepping stone to the abolition of house elves than, say, badges, wouldn’t you think, Potter?”

Harry snorts. “If I recall correctly, both you and Hermione have a complicated relationship with making statements via badges.”

“Yes, I was quite the menace, wasn’t I?” Draco muses, somewhere between wistful and regretful. “I had to work especially hard at it that year. I was competing for attention with not _ three _ , but _ four _ champions. One of whom was _ the _ Harry Potter.”

“And yet,” Harry says, the corners of his mouth lifting up, “you managed.”

Draco titters out a laugh, grey eyes lingering on Harry in a way that makes the hairs on Harry’s arm stand at attention. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

Harry catches himself staring after a few moments, and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I was just dropping that off for Hermione. She said I might as well take it in person since I’ve…” Harry flounders for words that don’t sound obsessive.

“Built such a rapport?” Draco snorts. “8 years of rivalry and now you’re the Malfoy whisperer.”

Harry smiles and shrugs. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.” His eyes drift to the portraits lining the walls, most of them talking among themselves or enjoying glasses of wine. He huffs and Draco raises an eyebrow. “Mine never shut up,” Harry provides, and Draco nods, amusement in his eyes.

“Sorry to hear it, Potter.” The tendrils of magic start working their way back to the papers, letters and numbers appearing before the entire packet took a slightly golden hue. Harry smiles.

“Your elves are good, then.”

Harry gets a weird thrill of excitement when Draco opens his mouth to respond. Just then, a voice from behind Harry says, “Of course they are, Mr. Potter.” Harry winces and turns to face Narcissa as she walks over to join Draco. Her trousers have dirt stains on the knees, and Harry recalls the abundance of narcissus flowers he had seen among the garden. He never considered that Narcissa had planted any of it herself. “You’ll have to excuse the state of me,” She continues, linking her arms with her son’s. Draco’s lips are sealed tightly, and Harry wants to groan. They were just, maybe, getting somewhere. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”

“No, no,” Harry shakes the folder with the survey in it. “Got everything I need.” He pauses. “But, er, your trainers.” He points at Draco’s feet. Narcissa and her son look down and back up at the same time, perfect mirrors of each other.

“His trainers,” Narcissa repeats, with the same tone as always. She turns to Draco. “He wants to discuss your trainers.”

“My trainers,” Draco considers along with her, like this is a scholarly topic. “It seems he does.” Draco bites his lip at the same time his mother runs a tongue over her teeth, both trying to keep from laughing.

“Our Head Auror,” Narcissa adds, and Draco has to fully turn around not to laugh outright. His mother presses her lips closed as they fight to turn up into a smile. 

“Teddy wants a pair like them,” Harry grumbles.

“Does Teddy want to be taller, too?” Narcissa says, and Harry looks back down at Draco’s shoes to find that they do provide quite a bit of lift, at least an extra inch or two.

Harry laughs. “No, he’s just obsessed with Muggle clothes.” Narcissa nods and snaps her finger, whispering something to the house elf who appears. She gives Harry the card the elf hands her when it returns.

“New business off Diagon Alley. You can buy Muggle items without having to go to Gringotts and do any terrible conversions. Makes it much easier.” Harry nods appreciatively and turns to take his leave.

“Er, also. You can call me Harry.” Draco turns back around, his cheeks a rosy pink from the little laughs he had been letting out behind his hand. “Both of you.” Harry clarifies, staring at Draco for another moment before waving goodbye again and closing the door behind him.

He hears the high thrum of Narcissa’s laughter and Draco telling her to _ shut up, seriously. _

_ * _

Harry wakes up on Sunday to a knock on his door and groans, throwing on a sweatshirt and deciding Hermione will just have to see him in his underwear.

The joke about his modesty dies on his tongue when he opens the door and sees Draco on the front steps, holding what appears to be a very burnt casserole and/or lasagna. Harry stares down at him, head tilted, remembering he’s in his boxer briefs when the wind ruffles through the thick hairs on his thighs. He takes (and/or snatches) the tray from Draco and uses it to discreetly cover his crotch.

Today, Draco has on a pair of muggle jeans and an off white turtleneck knit sweater, with a light green faux fur jacket. The bottom of his jeans are cuffed again, in what Harry is quickly learning is a signature style. It’s unnecessarily extravagant for a Sunday morning, but Draco seems comfortable. He has his forest green trainers back on, the Nike check shining in the sunlight. He shoves his hands in his jacket pocket now that Harry is holding the casserole dish. His cheeks are growing redder and redder by the second, and Harry feels his silver eyes lingering on the strong lines of his thighs and shoulders. “Mother said I should—” Draco clears his throat. “Help you with your portraits. She also wanted you to try her latest dish.” Draco pulls a face when he says _ dish _and motions to indicate that Harry’s life might literally be in danger should he choose to try it.

“Well,” Harry says, taking a step back so Draco can come in the front door, “I’d appreciate help with the portraits, but I’m, er—” Harry looks at the way the casserole dish is still smoking somehow. “I have allergies.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Allergies to what?” Harry quickly snatches up jackets and socks that are laid all over the couch, waving his wand to send Teddy’s toys back up to the room he stayed in. He sets the casserole dish down on the coffee table and motions for Draco to sit.

“To, er...something in there.” Harry finishes lamely, and Draco snorts. Without the ever-looming threat of Narcissa interrupting them, Harry lets himself really look at Draco. Today, his hair is parted in the middle, with the front pieces on either side of the part held back by big, green clips. Harry feels terribly underdressed. Maybe on account of the fact that he only had on his boxers.

Draco picks up one of the toys the spell hadn’t quite caught, a little lion plush. He raises an eyebrow and holds it up next to his face. “Trying to indoctrinate my innocent cousin into Gryffindor-dom, are we?” He asks, before setting the toy next to him on the couch and keeping a hand on it’s back. Harry thinks it might be the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

“He chose the lion all on his own, Malfoy.”

“I’m sure he did, Potter,” Draco hums, before looking quickly around the sitting room and leaving his eyes on Walburga’s portrait. Harry keeps her here because it’s the farthest she can get from the bedroom. “Hello, Great Auntie,” Draco says primly. For the first time, Walburga doesn’t curl her lip up in disgust.

“Narcissa’s boy, are you?” She asks, excited. “I haven’t seen you since you were this tall.” The height she makes is still significantly taller than Draco has ever been, mainly because the portrait is hanging over the mantle. Harry hides his laugh with a cough and Draco glares.

“Yes, Auntie, it’s me. I’ve come to check on you because I’ve heard about people being so cruel to their portraits,” Draco says, lip out in faux sympathy. Walburga presses a hand to her chest. “You know, spells to shut them up permanently, or trapping them in their frame, or even deanimating them permanently.” Harry knows all of these things are varying degrees of illegal and widely considered to be inhumane, and he knows Draco knows this, but he also knows Walburga thinks the wireless in beneath her and refuses to listen to current events. Draco continues, “So, how is Harry treating you?”

Walburga sputters, turning to Harry and Draco and back again before saying, quietly, “Nothing as terrible as that.”

Draco smiles brightly, the edges of it turning knowing when he looks to Harry. “Then the Ancient and Noble House of Black is most fortunate towards you, Mr. Potter.” Harry fights a smile of his own and nods at Draco and Walburga.

“It’s my pleasure, really,” Harry replies, watching as Draco resituates the lion plush on the couch and stands.

“My mother expected me to eat that,” He points at the smoldering casserole dish. “I’m sure you understand when I say I’m still a bit peckish.” Harry chuckles and stands to lead Draco to the kitchen.

*

“This is the quietest she’s ever been,” Harry says later, inclining his head towards the living room where Walburga’s portrait sat.

Draco scoffs. “Members of the House of Black are notoriously obnoxious. Just have to remind them to be grateful.”

Harry doesn’t comment on the fact that Draco is also a part of the House of Black, instead electing to take another slice of reheated pizza. “Still,” He says, around a mouthful of food, “Thank you.”

He expects Draco to grimace or tell him to close his horrendous trap, but instead, he blushes and mumbles something like _of course he’s a friendly giant _under his breath. “You’re welcome,” He mutters. “However, can we address the hippogriff in the room?” Draco does motions about Harry’s height. Harry laughs.

“Potters are late bloomers,” Harry starts, then explains the entire thing the same way Hermione had explained it to him all that time ago. It’s strange to think he hasn’t seen Draco since it happened. By the end of the retelling of Potter family lore, Draco is biting down on his absurdly pink bottom lip, trying to keep from laughing.

“I really think something that ridiculously lucky could only happen to you, Potter.” Draco finally says, shaking his head and raising his fork to his mouth to eat another bite of his pizza. Harry watches his lips sink around the piece of dough and forces himself to look away.

“Lucky? I had to get a whole new wardrobe!” Harry complains.

Draco rolls his eyes, and when they land back on Harry they’re more than a little amused. “I remember how you used to dress, Potter. It couldn’t have been that big of a loss.” Harry makes an offended sound.

“Just because the rest of us don’t look like we just stepped out a magazine doesn’t mean we deserve to have to buy a whole new wardrobe every year.” It sounded more insulting and less flirtatious in Harry’s mind, but Draco takes it in stride, leaning a little further across the kitchen island they were seated at.

“Which magazine would I have stepped out of, Harry?” Draco tilts his head to the side and blinks owlishly, still almost smiling and pretending to be innocent.

“Prats Weekly,” Harry responds, and Draco laughs. “It’s okay to just say you’re jealous, dearest. Not your fault you’re so miniature.” Insincere sympathy seeps into his tone, and Draco looks so thoroughly affronted that Harry has to yelp out a laugh.

“I refuse to be ashamed of my height just because you’re a freak of nature.” Draco sniffs, turning his nose up. Harry chuckles again. “You’re lucky your new stature suits you, or you’d be victim to quite the arsenal of insults right about now.” Harry can tell from the way Draco pauses for a second after he says it that it sounded more cutting in his head. Draco takes a long sip of his water instead of continuing to speak.

“It worked out fine for both of us, then,” Harry says. “You look alright from up here, Malfoy.” Draco chokes a little on his water but keeps drinking. Harry clears his throat and, without allowing himself time to overthink it, asks, “Would you like to hang out again sometime?”

Draco reaches up to his temple and opens and closes the clip on his head, smoothing a hand over it after to make sure it stayed in place, then does it again before answering. “On a…” He trails off. Harry nods and Malfoy nods until they’re both just nodding in relative silence. Draco opens and closes his left hair clip again. “Yes, then.” After another moment of silence, Draco breaks out into a bewildered laugh, and Harry is helpless to do anything but laugh along.

An hour or so later, Draco is back on the front steps, pointing at the coffee table inside. “Don’t forget to try the shepherd’s pie.” Harry blanches at the insinuation that the mass inside that casserole dish is meant to be such a beloved food, and Draco rolls his eyes. “And no more buying my cousin Gryffindor paraphernalia.”

Harry waves him off, smirking a little. “You seemed to be quite cozy with the Gryffindor paraphernalia.” He’s referencing the way Draco had taken to the lion plush, of course, but the innuendo is obvious. The air has been almost palpably charged between them since Draco agreed to a date.

Draco fiddles with his hair clips instead of responding. For a second, Harry thinks of the person Draco might have become if everything was different. He had always been studious and would’ve been first in their year if Hermione wasn’t such an academic anomaly. He wonders if, maybe with different parents or different circumstances, Draco would’ve just been a bookish boy who played with his hair accessories when he got nervous. “You’re such a freak, Potter,” Draco finally says, and Harry smiles as his former classmate turns on the balls of his feet and walks away, not sparing a glance back.

Harry likes him better the way he is.

*

“A date!” Ron nearly yells, and Hermione shushes him and closes her door with a quick spell and wave of her wand. “With Malfoy?!” Ron looks between Hermione, behind her desk, and Harry, next to him on the couch, several times. “Hermione!” He yelps, stomping his foot.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Ronald, Draco isn’t that bad anymore. He sent over several ideas on how to move forward in the abolition of forced house elf labor.” Hermione picks up a piece of paper on her desk and waves it around, mumbling, “He could really work on his tone, though.”

Ron looks between her and Harry several more times. “I’m in hell.” He finally decides, resigned. “We lost the war and I went to hell and I just realized. I should have known after that time you made me go to the opera.” He’s talking more to himself than either of them. It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s just like that Muggle documentary I watched.”

“_ The Truman Show _was not a documentary, Ron, honestly—” Hermione breathes, and Harry laughs. Ron sinks down on the couch until his head hits the back of it.

“100 percent free will, Harry?” Ron asks. It’s another joke, but Harry can hear a certain tightness in his friend’s voice. Wars never really leave people. They’re funny like that. Harry smoothes some of Ron’s hair back from his forehead and presses a big, wet kiss to it. Ron grimaces and swats him away.

“Hundred percent, Ronaldo,” Harry answers. When he looks up, Hermione is gazing at both of them fondly. “Wanna hear about how Malfoy’s headbands turn me on?” Harry says when he turns back to Ron and swiftly gets a pillow to the head.

*

_ Potter, _

_ I’m writing larger so you can see my penmanship from up there in the sky. I was wondering what exactly we’ll be doing on our outing. I detest being underdressed. I’m not sure if you’ll understand, but, please, try to. _

_ Draco L. Malfoy _

_ Draco, _

_ If anything would prevent me from reading your penmanship, it would be my terrible eyesight. I can’t relate to hating being underdressed, you’re right. I’m chronically underdressed. It’s also a surprise where we’re going, but you should dress casual, it that’s at all possible for you. Bring a light jacket. I would lend you one of mine but you might drown in it. _

_ Harry J. Potter _

_ Harry, _

_ Tall people have bad knees. _

_ Draco L. Malfoy _

_ Draco, _

_ Jokes on you, then. I had those anyway. _

_ Harry _

_ Harry, _

_ You’re absolutely unbearable. _

_ Draco _

_ * _

When Harry arrives to pick Draco up, he’s already pre-planned banter. He’ll compliment whatever Draco has on, which definitely won’t be casual, and Draco will say something rude yet endearing, and they’ll find their footing from there.

Draco, as always, could give a fuck about Harry’s best-laid plans, and is already waiting at the gate when Harry arrives. Today, he’s wearing a turtleneck, this one much tighter and a pure white. He has light blue sweater over it, a size too big and hanging down enough for Harry to see the outline of Draco’s clavicle through the thin material of the turtleneck. He’s in plain black jeans with pristine cuffs, as always. He has on the white trainers he was wearing the third time Harry came. Draco doesn’t even stop to say hello, just reaches for the crook in Harry’s elbow and starts pulling him away. “Eager, Malfoy?” Harry asks.

“Draco!” A voice calls from inside the Manor. Draco groans as they both look up to see his mother waving from a window on the third floor, leaning precariously out of the frame. “Ask Harry what he thought of the shepherd’s pie!” Harry turns back to Draco, absolutely stricken, and digs in his pocket to pull out a small, plastic apple. Draco places a hand over it and they’re immediately whirred to a serene patch of scenery, skyscrapers barely visible in the background when Draco looks around. The cherry blossom trees are in full bloom already, a light breeze knocking a few leaves to the ground every now and then. Distantly, the sound of honking cars and millions of people talking at once buzzes together. 

“Where _ are _we?” Draco asks, nearly incredulous.

“Central Park,” Harry answers breezily, already getting to work setting out the picnic blanket he had brought and casting Disillusionment Charms. Draco looks between the basket and Harry in an almost fond sort of distaste.

“Do you cross international lines for all your dates?” Harry tries not to lose his nerve at hearing Draco call it a date, too. He doesn’t know why, but that makes everything seem more real. He finishes straightening out the blanket without looking up, motioning for Draco to sit down after he places the wicker basket he had brought in the center.

“No, this is a Malfoy special,” Harry finally answers, smiling a little as Draco tries to arrange himself gracefully on the blanket and repeatedly fails. After a few attempts, Draco toes off his trainers and sits cross-legged on the other side of the basket. All of the lines on his body are rigid, and his hands are folded over each other in his lap. “Have you ever been to New York before?”

Draco shakes his head. “I…” He coughs. “I could probably stand to get out of the house more, though. I think if I leave for more than a few hours Mother floos the Missing Wizard Hotline.” Harry snorts as he finishes taking out Tupperware containers, all under stasis.

Draco watches as Harry sets out two plates, both with little snitches designed around the edges. The blond reaches out a hand and runs the very tip of his fingers over the repeated image. Harry smiles. “I didn’t know for sure what you’d like, so I made some of everything.” He points at the different containers as he removes the lids. “Fried rice, pasta fresca, bolognese, garlic bread, scallion pancakes, potstickers, a cheese board, strawberries, and cucumber sandwiches. Oh, and—“ He pulls out a bottle of very old wine that one of the portraits at Grimmauld had said was simply _to die for. _A glowing recommendation from someone who had literally already died.

Draco reaches out and grabs the bottle, inspecting the label and making an overexaggerated impressed face. “Not bad, Potter.” He finally says, although he still seems a bit overwhelmed by the mounds of food on the blanket. “You made all of this?” Draco’s fingers skim around the edge of a few of the containers.

“Yeah. I used to—I had to cook a lot. When I was younger.” Harry nudges Draco's socked foot, body still alight with the contact when he jokes, “Promise it’s better than anything your mother or Dromeda make.”

Draco almost smiles. “Well, that’s not exactly a high bar to set, sir.” Harry laughs. “Did you bring dessert?” Harry has to blink a few times before he can fully comprehend the question, finding himself lost in Draco’s eyes. He wants to choke himself out.

“Of course I did, why?” Draco grins, looking every bit like a child who’s about to pull one over on the babysitter

“Let’s start with that.”

*

“You found the Portkey or made it?” Draco asks later, laying down opposite Harry with his head propped up on an elbow. He shovels in another bite of brie and apple, and Harry thinks absently that he and Ron really would’ve gotten on in school if appetite was anything to go by. Or if things had been different.

Harry nods. “Guess Sirius or somebody liked it here. The first time I held it I had to call Hermione to come get me.” Draco uses his other hand to cover up his mouth as he laughs, mouth still full of food. It should be gross— but if life has taught Harry anything, it’s that a lot of things should be and aren’t. Harry grimaces as Draco eats a piece of bread with cheese and strawberry jam piled on top of it. “I’ll never understand cheese and fruit together.”

Draco groans and mutters something about _ unrefined palettes _ and _ teaching Gryffindors everything because they were too busy speaking to lizards to go to class _ under his breath, building another bite of his brie/jam/buttered bread debacle. He doesn’t say another word before reaching over to feed it to Harry, who stares at his hand like it’s the first one he’s ever seen. Draco presses further, and Harry doesn’t doubt for a second that he’ll keep going until one of them has jam all over their face. Reluctantly, with his eyes trained on Draco’s, Harry opens his mouth and takes a bite. A moment later, Draco, almost breathless, asks, “Good?”

Harry, helpless, answers, “Good.”

Hours later, they’re on the good side of tipsy as they walk back towards the Manor’s gates. They keep swaying closer and closer to each other, and just as Harry is about to reach for Draco’s hand, Draco grabs the crook of Harry’s elbow and stops them both from walking any further. “Alright, Malfoy?” Harry asks, softer than he means to. Draco stares at him, several equally indecipherable emotions flitting over his features before he steels himself and goes up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek.

He huffs as he flops back onto his feet, moving to tuck a piece of hair behind his hair and stopping himself when he remembers he already did that, 5 minutes ago. “You’re ridiculously tall.” Draco crosses his arms and looks everywhere but his date’s face.

Harry beams, and leans down to press kisses all over Draco’s forehead, and the space between his eyebrows, laughing when Draco scrunches up his face in disgust and starts swatting him away. “On the first date, honestly, Potter, think of my virtue!” Harry laughs again, the sound ringing over the sleepy town.

“You kissed me first! Isn’t my virtue worth anything?” Draco lets out a bark of a laugh. “Okay, okay, it’s not that funny,” Harry frowns, slipping his hand into the one Draco is using to cover up his mouth as he giggles. He’s rewarded with a mouth full of pearly white teeth, and an almost wistful look in Draco’s eyes. “Now, c’mon, harlot, have to get you home.” Draco uses the hand Harry’s not holding to punch his arm.

But when Harry screws his face up in pain, Draco’s eyebrows knit together, almost imperceptibly, and he smooths a hand over where he hit Harry’s bicep. Harry breaks into a bright smile and Draco hits him again, harder, letting go of his hand and storming ahead on the path. Through a laugh, Harry yells, “Come on, you started it!” after him. Draco flips him the bird.

*

On the front steps of the manor, after Harry has caught up and profusely apologized for his deception, and even managed to get Draco’s hand in his own again, they’re standing in relative silence. Draco’s other hand picks at the side seam of his jeans. “So, this was…” The blond trails off and screws his face up like he had been expecting the words to come to him before the sentence ended. Harry snorts.

“You’ve always had a way with words, Malfoy,” Harry reassures. “Potter stinks, was it? Poetic.” Draco looks at him murderously but his cheeks are going the slightest bit pink under the dim light of the porch lanterns. Anticipating his date’s nervous habit, Harry drops Draco’s hand and re-tucks a piece of hair behind his ear. When Draco looks up at him, head tilted and one eyebrow raised, all the air is knocked out of his chest.

“It’s why I always have something holding my hair back. Pansy is always saying if I put my hair behind my ear one more time she’ll tie me down and cut some bangs.” His blush deepens as Harry nods and leans down, invading his space. “I got all these weird habits as I got older, like my hair or having to be color coordinated at all time, or—“

“Malfoy.” Harry says, interrupting the rambling. “Love the headbands. Told Ron they turn me on.” Draco makes a face. “Really don’t want to talk about Pansy right now, though.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about the Weasel.” Draco grouses, watching raptly as Harry leans further forward. They’re breathing the same air.

“So let’s not talk.” Harry offers, and Draco scoffs and goes to make another comment when Harry kisses him, proper, in that way beautiful people are meant to be kissed. Draco hums against his lips, his mouth still tasting of champagne and strawberry jam when they open up to each other, Harry snaking his arms around Draco’s waist and pressing them closer together. The very ends of Draco’s hair brush against Harry’s knuckles on his back and Harry thinks he could die like this.

He knows, with this one kiss, that tomorrow he will wake up in rose colored glasses. That the entire world will have shifted itself again to account for this young and beautiful thing; holding a boy you used to hate under his porch lights like you’re a teenager, eating jam off his fingertips under cherry blossoms with a city just out of focus, his arms looped around the back of your neck and him smiling against your lips.

Tomorrow Harry will wake up, and just like how his clothes no longer fit his body on that years ago, no other lips will ever fit on his but Draco’s. What a beautiful and terrible thing, Harry thinks, to be at the very beginning of something extraordinary.

Harry brings a hand up to cup Draco’s face, ignoring the low burn in his neck from leaning down for so long, and is about to _ really _ go to town when they’re a resounding _ pop! _next to them. Draco jumps from his arms and nearly falls over the edge of the porch, planting his feet at the last second and sending a murderous glare at where Tilly has appeared next to them. Harry’s entire body is hot with embarrassment.

Tilly holds out a pot of _ Madame Lichenstein’s Lip Softening Potion _ to Draco, and Harry looks frantically between the dark windows of the mansion for Narcissa, only stopping when Draco lays a hand over his bicep. The blond snatches the pot from Tilly, muttering something about _ complete violations of privacy _ and _ utter humiliation _ and _ being a grown man, for Salazar’s sake. _Harry snorts despite his mortification and Tilly disapparates.

After a long moment, Draco sighs and pulls Harry down into a chaste kiss, like this is the most natural goodbye in the world. Like they’ve been giving little filler kisses to each other this whole time. “Help me look for a flat of my own on our next date?”

Harry smiles. “Will it require actual decision making or can we just draw straws?”

Draco punches him again.

**Author's Note:**

> fae's c*missions r open! visit him @ dracoofficial on tumblr or butchbelly on twitter for more info! er. leave a comment if u want. please don't bully me for my loose understanding of british people i hate james corden and refused to learn anything else abt the place out of spite for him. also hi phoenix love u...


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